Christmas in Gotham
by AZ-woodbomb
Summary: A series of one-shots featuring the villains of Gotham and their adventures during the holidays.
1. Red Christmas

AN: This is the first in a short series of one-shots, detailing the adventures of Gotham's villains during the holidays. This first one is horror but the rest will probably be some other genre. I'll decide when the time comes.

Review! Review! Review!

* * *

Alberto Falcone's manor was quiet and peaceful on this evening, as most homes tend to be on Christmas Eve. It was dark outside but he felt safe in the knowledge that he had ten guards patrolling the grounds. Not that there was much danger; no-one would order a hit during the holidays. Still, in light of recent events, one was never too careful.

He cast such thoughts aside and watched with a smile as his seven year old daughter raised a wrapped package and weighed it with a contemplating look on her face, then shook it carefully. His wife and his sister sat in a sofa opposite him, chatting about something he would never be able to relate to.

Rolling the wine around in his glass he looked back at his daughter.

"Isn't it about time for bed, Anne?"

She looked up at him from the floor, a surly pout telling him exactly what she thought of his suggestion. He took no heed and picked her up and ruffled her hair.

"Stop making faces at me or I'll tell Santa. Wouldn't want that, now would.."

BLAM!

He was interrupted by the sound of a gun being fired outside. He felt his blood run cold.

"Panic room! Now!"

They all ran for it as the sound of gunfire escalated. He cradled Anne's head against his chest as he ran and led his wife by the hand. They reached the panic room and closed the door behind them.

His sister went for the phone and dialed for the police while he muttered meaningless words of consolation to his daughter, who was now in her mother's arms, sobbing loudly. His wife glared at him accusingly, as if this was all his fault. Which it was, in a way.

Minutes passed and nothing happened. Either his guards would come and report their success or someone else would come to search for him. They could only wait.

He only knew of one monster who could possibly be attacking at such a time. Shit. Why couldn't he have remembered to grab a gun. They just had to hope the steel door held until help came.

Something brushed against the door and they all went quiet, their eyes transfixed on the steel. From outside there came a sniffing noise, followed by a deep growl.

"_Smell you."_

It really was him. Or it. For a moment everything was quiet. Then something smacked into the door with a loud crash. The door held and again all went quiet. Again it came.

BAM!

And again it held.

BAM! Quiet. BAM! Quiet. BAM! Quiet. BAM! The steel had started to moan and creak with every hit. BAM! Dust was starting to fall from the ceiling. BAM! Alberto could hear it's labored breath. BAM! The door started to bend inwards. BAM! The creature made a sound resembling a laugh. BAM! His daughter's sobs changed into wailing. BAM! Nothing but crying and the monster's breath. BAM! The door looked on the verge of breaking and everything quieted down, even his daughter's crying.

He strained his ears, hearing nothing but his family's whimpering and his own strained breathing and hammering heartbeat pounding in his ear. Moments passed and nothing happened.

Then he heard the sound of its running footsteps coming closer, heard the monster's weight slamming into the floor with each step. He ran at his family, knocking them out of the way seconds before the monster barreled through the door and sent it flying through the room.

He looked up at it from the floor, his arms stretched in a show of protecting his family. It raised itself to its full height, towering over them and staring at them with its cruel eyes. Blood dripped from its jaw, falling silently to the floor. Then it spoke in that deep rumble.

"_See you._"

He got to his feet, standing between the monster and his family. Its eyes moved to his daughter and the wrapped package she was clutching to her chest. The creature's lips curled upwards in a grotesque parody of a smile, revealing its sharp and bloody teeth.

_"Christmas, that's right. Make a deal."_

He stared at it in confusion for a moment, then found his voice.

"A deal?"

_"Special Christmas deal."_

He said nothing, couldn't grasp the creature's meaning.

_"Hungry. Four snacks here. Spare all. But there's a price. And a message."_

He couldn't believe what he was hearing, shouldn't. But something akin to hope erupted in his breast.

"What's the price?", he finally stuttered.

_"Four arms, three legs, two eyes, an ear. Stuff you live without. Kid don't need to lose nothing. Choose who gives what."_

His jaw went slack and he felt like he could collapse to the floor at any moment. That was not something you survived unless you were near a hospital and even then a miracle was needed. Still, the cops were on their way so there was a ray of hope, however faint. And if it meant saving his daughter's life, however traumatized she would be, was the only thing that mattered.

"You get me and only me."

An amused glint appeared in the reptile's eyes.

_"No. You can't choose, so I do. You give most, women share rest."_

The monster grabbed his arms and leaned close to his face, its putrid breath almost making him wretch.

_"The message: No more hitmen. Taste bad."_

Its teeth tore their way into his flesh and his shrill scream pierced the room and blood sprayed in all directions.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Killer Croc jumped over the wall separating the manor ground's from the outside and ran through the snow with a red-tinged bag hanging over his shoulder. Blood fell onto the pearly white snow and the music of police sirens sounded throughout the neighborhood.

He couldn't help himself.

_"Ho ho ho."_


	2. Suicide Season

AN: That 0 in reviews is driving me insane. It sits there and mocks me, its taunting eyes never leaving me. Occasionally it makes lewd comments. Each night I go to sleep uneasy for I fear it will get up and strangle me with its non-existent hands.

* * *

_Tap,tap_.

The sound of metal hitting glass softly is soothing, the only activity currently available.

_Tap, tap._

The room is freezing and he feels goosebumps form on his right side. He feels them on the left side too, but he knows they're not really there. Ghost goosebumps.

**He stops the tapping and puts the gun down on the little glass table, beside its partner. The sound was driving him mad.**

He would close the windows but the coin said no.

**Just as well. The cold fits his current mood perfectly.**

There's absolutely nothing to do. The second day of Christmas is two days away and until then he will do nothing.

**It's worth the wait. On that day he will hit two of the Penguin's smuggling operations at the same time, bringing misery to the old bird.**

He'll probably be ready for it. The twos are a bit of a tell.

**But he won't be able to do a thing about it. The fat bastard is cunning but he doesn't have the balls for this. He never does anything himself, just sits in his bar and lets others die for him.**

Just the type of scumbag he used to hunt in his former days. And still does, in a way.

**He's too soft for this life. He isn't feared, although that's not surprising. What's scarier: A disfigured monster or a chubby man with an umbrella? Hah!**

He's weak. He's too transparent, too simple. He's controlled by greed and nothing more. Greed for money and a lust for power. He cares about the luxury. He does it for a reason.

**Better to stay neutral, leave everything to chance. No-one really owns anything, deserves anything. You get what you get, nothing you do can change that. It's all up to fate. There is no justice and there is no injustice. There is no reason for all the things that happen in the world, good or bad. **

Bad things don't just happen to bad people and vice-versa. What goes around does not necessarily come around.

**He pours himself a glass of scotch and downs it, relishing the pain as it scorches the bad side and trickles through the destroyed flesh where the lips pull back in a permanent grimace.**

No one really deserves it, no matter what they do. No one deserves to die.

**Doesn't stop 'em though. **

He looks at the clock on the wall. 2:02. He downs a second shot of scotch.

**He leans his head to the side, to keep the liquid that escapes his mouth from staining the good part of the suit.**

The sound of singing is heard outside and he perks his ear. Some drunk idiots belching out Christmas carols.

**He flips the coin. It says no to shooting the assholes.**

His thoughts wander to a different point in time, to his last happy Christmas. The look of joy on Gilda's face and his own bliss. He was successful, married to an angel, lived with her in a perfect house. Gotham was getting better. Gilda was so proud of him. They were thinking of having children.

**His thoughts wander to a different point in time. He remembers the look on her face, her attempts at acting like everything was fine. She'd come to visit him in the hospital, her eyes watery and her voice strained. She couldn't stand the look of him but didn't want to admit it, didn't want to believe it. She said she'd stay with him, that they could be happy again. He knew it wasn't true and told her so. She cried. He screamed at her, begged her to move on. She said she wouldn't. He shook her, screamed some more. Then he pushed her out of his way and ran. He could hear her wailing as he knocked out the cop guarding his room and fled. **

A solitary tear makes its way out of his good eye, sliding down at a snail's pace. It hangs from his jaw, hovering in place before finally falling straight onto the good part of the suit. He doesn't care.

**He reaches for one of the guns and puts it to his temple. He flips the coin and stares at it for a while. Not today. Fate still has use for him.**

He slumps in his seat. Nothing to do but enjoy the solitude, if you can call it that. Always by himself but never really alone.

He moves the hand with the gun over to the little glass table.

_Tap, tap._

_Tap, tap._


	3. Always

AN: It has been brought to my attention that the first two chapters aren't happy or Christmas-y. At all. Therefore I give you: a happy chapter(Sorta. Mostly.)

* * *

She flitted back and forth in the kitchen, trying her hardest to keep things from exploding and trying to convince herself that the smell was good.

"Jingle bells, Batman smells…", her soft voice echoed through the room as she tried to keep from panicking.

Who would have thought making rib roast was so hard?

"…Robin laid an egg."

Maybe it was just hard because she was alone. Not that she was used to encouragement. (Come to think of it she was quite often discouraged)

"The Batmobile.."

But that was a positive thing as well. It didn't matter if she messed it up completely because there was nobody to disappoint. Yeah, a good thing.

"…lost a wheel…"

But maybe he'd come. Just because she didn't know where he was didn't mean he wasn't coming home for Christmas.

"..an' Mistah J…"

It'd still be easier if he'd been busted by B-man and brought to Arkham. That way she could simply have checked herself in.

"…got awaaaaaaay."

She bowed to the mirror and took its applause with a broad smile. Who else was out anyway? Just Dr. Crane, as far as she knew.

She raised her fist to her chin and put on a imitation of Eddie's thinking look.

Maybe puddin' felt bad for old Dr. Crane and wanted her to cheer him up! That would explain his absence in a perfectly logical way.

Her thousand-watt smile broke out and she nodded her head in approval. She could bring the food, if she knew good ole Jonathan right he wouldn't have any real food. He probably didn't even know it was Christmas. Yes, nothing like a good old home invasion to spread that holiday cheer.

But where would he be? She raised her hand and counted the clues on her fingers. One: He hates people. Two: He likes books. Three: He likes spooky things. Four: He likes chemical stuff. Five: Uh, he likes spooky things?

She'd have to ask around or something boring like that. A pout formed on her lips. Mistah J would'a been able to find him in no time. She sighed adoringly. Her man was so smart.

She remembered last Christmas, the best Christmas ever. He'd loved his gifts, especially the stabby-shoes with the large toothy grins. She, on the other hand, had been a very naughty girl that year and got nothing but a padding from Santa J, along with other rewards. Best. Christmas. Ever.

Her sighs of joy were interrupted by the ring of the bell.

She nearly jumped out of her skin. Who could it be? The couple that owned the house hadn't looked very neighborly and there weren't any pictures of family or friends in the house. She took a deep breath. B-man never rang doorbells, did he? No. No, he smashed through the windows pretty much every single time. Or announced his presence by throwing a batarang in your face.

She tip-toed to the door and pressed herself to the wall. The bell rang again. She took a steadying breath and peeked out of the little window in the door. Her eyes widened in surprise.

She flung the door open, causing it to crash into the wall. The woman on the doorstep jumped, causing the little santa hat on her head to slant and her disinterested expression to change into surprise.

Harley threw herself at the woman in the most aggressive bear hug ever seen in Gotham, knocking her friend to the ground in the process. She inhaled the familiar scent of the woman's fiery red hair as her friend struggled vainly beneath her.

"Harley! Get. Off of. Me."

She clung tighter as she bellowed happily in the woman's ear.

"Merry X-mas, Red!"


	4. The Kindness of Strangers

He looked down at the still figure. His heartbeat sped up and his thinking slowed down. That had been unbelievably lucky. This meant it was more than likely none of this was real. Jonathan Crane was not lucky. Good things did not happen to him. This was a fact, one of the undeniable truths of the universe.

Furthermore, Batman did not get caught unawares, especially not when infiltrating lairs. Batman's reaction when a foe rushed at him with a bludgeon was not to stand still. Batman did not crumple unconscious to the ground when said foe hit him in the head with said bludgeon. Something was not right. Not right at all.

He reached his hand out slowly, shakily. He drew closer and with every inch a new possible chain of events flashed through his mind, each more unpleasant than the last. As soon as he touched him, the Batman was sure to spring to his feet and pummel him into oblivion. But he had to try, didn't he?

His hand touched the vigilante's shoulder and he froze. One, two, three seconds passed and nothing happened. The perfect, the second-best and the third-best moment for Batman to spring to life and cause maximum terror passed. Nothing happened. He carefully flipped the dark knight over, toxin at the ready.

Jonathan felt a shudder run through him. The fear had passed and his body seemed content to return all functions to normal. His knees felt wobbly as he leaned against the wall for support. A smile graced his face as he took off his mask and sighed. At times like this he regretted not being a smoker.

But what was that? His eyes closed on a strange object that had tumbled from the Batman as he flipped him over. It was a box, a strangely colorful box. It wasn't in the shape of a bat, so a weapon was unlikely. Maybe some new gadget that could do impossible things. But why the bright colors?

His eyes widened in recognition. No! It could not be. He was seeing things. Batman had hit him too hard, he was in a state of delirium, probably back in Arkham already but unaware of it. Still, this was much too peaceful to be a concoction of his own mind. Unless something terrible was coming.

He put his mask back on, even if it had little purpose. If this was a hallucination on his part there was nothing to do about it. Better to investigate than to wait like a coward. This could be real. The Batman might really be at his mercy. He might just be at a turning point, one step away from freedom.

He took the package in his hands and studied it. No note, nothing to show what it was or for whom. It felt like a book. This was all just too strange. He hadn't even been doing anything! Why on earth had Batman...Why had Batman entered his lair in a decidedly un-stealthy manner with a present in hand?

Jonathan shook his head wildly. No way. Absolutely no way. But what else could it be? Some fiendishly clever trick? Had Batman been playing Santa before deciding it was a good day for hunting scarecrows? Had the Bat snapped? This made absolutely no sense. The Batman hated him more than anyone. Didn't he?

* * *

The master had returned later than planned that night. He didn't seem too engrossed in the family's festivities and was even quieter than usual.

"Is there something troubling you, master Bruce?"

Bruce didn't answer right away and he hardly seemed to notice he had been spoken to. Finally he opened his mouth.

"Alfred. Do you think…Would someone…Would someone like Scarecrow care one whit about Christmas?"

His look of confusion reflected Bruce's.

"Pardon, sir?"

"I've been thinking about it all night and I still haven't figured it out. The reason it took me so long to return from Leslie's was that I ran into Scarecrow. It was stupid and I was clumsy. I'm not even sure if it was actually a trap or if the roof was just too weak to hold me."

Alfred's blood ran cold.

"You nearly died tonight and forgot to mention it, sir?"

"I-I'm not sure if it counts as a near-death experience. It was too strange. He had me absolutely at his mercy. He could have killed me easily but as far as I can tell he just… left. I don't know why, there was no sign of struggle and the police didn't have anything to do with it. Well, that's not quite right. He didn't just leave."

The perplexed butler raised an eyebrow, egging Bruce on. The latter responded with a confused and slightly hurt voice, a glimpse into the child Alfred hadn't seen in decades.

"He stole my Christmas present."

* * *

AN: In case it isn't clear: Batman is returning from Leslie Thompkins' with a present when he spots something suspicious. Why did he drop by and fetch the present as Batman but not Bruce, you ask? Because he's Batman.


	5. Strange Bedfellows

AN: This might be the last chapter. If anyone's got a request I could be persuaded into making another one.

* * *

The halls of Arkham Asylum were silent and dark that night, like most nights. What made this night special was that it was the night before Christmas. This meant fewer guards, which made this a perfect opportunity for opportunistic wrong-doers.

"A-are you s-sure about this, s-sir?", a meek voice sounded from somewhere down the hall.

"Ya doubtin' me, knucklehead? Ya think yer smarter 'an me?!", another voice answered.

"N-no! And please don't shout, they'll hear us."

"I do as I damn please! Let 'em all come, I'll kill every one of 'em!"

"S-sorry, sir. But are you sure about this?"

"What did I just tell ya, youse stupid, good for nothing dumbass?! I know what I'm doin'!"

The voices drew nearer, their heated conversation echoing down the hall. Broken segments of their argument reached Victor's ears.

"M-maybe he wants to b-be left alone?"

"In here?! Hah!"

"But w-won't he be angry if we ask him to r-return the favor?"

"Ya tellin' me yer afraid a' da ol' refrigerator-man? Oh, wait, forgot who I was talkin' to. Of course yer afraid a'im, yer afraid a' yer own shadow!"

The talking stopped for a moment, but the footsteps kept coming.

"But we've never even s-spoken to him before. Will he t-trust us?"

"I swear, yer gonna be da death of me. Just _shut up_, dummy. I'll handle dis."

"You're right of course, Mr. Scarface. You a-always are."

"Yeah, yeah, you don't need ta tell _me_ dat."

The voices stopped right outside his cell and the door swung slowly inward, revealing his guests. The Ventriloquist stood in the doorway with a nervous smile on his face, Scarface on his hand. Behind them stood two men in guard uniforms with a cart carrying a familiar suit of armor.

"Got an offer for ya, Freeze."

"I am not interested, Wesker.", Victor replied in his flat tones. The Ventriloquist flinched and looked at Scarface with a worried look.

"Well, den I guess I'll just find somebody else. Hey, dummy, who else do we know that's interested in a frozen lady in a secret lab?"

"Do not mock me, Arnold. Tell me where she is!", his voice still emotionless but imbued with even more cold than usual.

Wesker blanched at the threat in his voice but Scarface went on.

"Why don't ya just come wit' us den? Be both want something from da same place."

Victor didn't need to think long. Finding Nora again was well worth putting up with this ridiculous character.

"Agreed."

* * *

Later that night they were standing in a warehouse, Freeze towering over everyone in his cryogenic armor and Wesker by his side, the puppet on the latter's arm barking out orders to a group of thugs.

"Listen up, youse mugs!"

Freeze turned to Wesker, having already heard everything Scarface was saying.

"How did you find out about this?"

The Ventriloquist turned to him with a surprised look on his face.

"Tonight we'll be hittin' a Gothcorp lab. Plenty a' high-tech junk that'll go for big bucks, if our buyer holds up his parta' the bargain."

"Oh, Scarface found out about your w-wife by accident. I suggested we tell you and Scarface agreed that you h-had a right to know."

"De security's tight in dis place so we brought on a heavyweight, I'm sure ya recognize 'im. He'll help us out wit' our job and we help him find his girl.", the puppet yammered on.

Freeze was impressed. Did this man ever breathe?

"I-I hope we didn't bother you."

"You did not. Thank you, Arnold." The words felt foreign to him, but the pleased look on Wesker's face convinced him that it was the right thing to say.

"Hey dummy!", the puppet wheeled on its master,"Keep it down! I'm tryin' ta talk here!"

"S-sorry Mr. Scarface."

If he still felt emotion, Freeze would have pitied the man. Wesker wasn't at all the type who should be mixed up in these things.

The puppet went on with its speech. Freeze waited patiently for his new partner(s).

* * *

Later still Freeze found himself in the back of the get-away van, his beloved restored to him. The attack had been swift and chaotic, started with bullets and blood and pain, ended by frost.

But it mattered not. The puppet had kept its promise and here they were, united once more.

She rested in her chamber, just the way he had remembered her. Her angelic features were unmarred, no sign of the turmoil she had been through visible on her skin. Her golden hair sparkled, causing his heart to ache for her, causing the first feeling of joy he had felt for a long time.

"You, my love. Only you can move my heart." He wished he could whisper it to her softly, but it came out in his usual voice, cold and hollow like the rest of him.

He put his hand on the glass, imagined touching her again. He felt tears form in his eyes, felt them freeze instantly. She was his life. He had no reason to live apart from her, cared about nothing else. He would save her, even if it took him forever.

He would see her smile again. He would hear her laugh again.

"This I promise."

She would no doubt leave him when she found out what he had done, but it would not matter. As long as she lived again, as long as he could give back what fate had so cruelly taken from her. She was too young to die, too full of life to succumb to something as trivial as death.

She was eternal, much like his love for her.

* * *

AN: This feels a bit sloppy but I had to get it out. I'll most likely edit this later, so if you have any suggestions or criticisms just sound off in a review.


	6. Untouchable

Someone is burning below. One should think they would have learned by now that the Penguin can not be slain by amateur assassins. The Iceberg Lounge is not a welcoming environ after closing. Oswald shakes his head and scoffs. Newcomers.

_There is one thing that most puzzles gangsters not native to Gotham. There are no rumors of terrible tortures or excessive brutality, like the ones that circulate around Black Mask and his mob. The man certainly does not have a terrifying presence. Nor does he employ the most proficient killers, like Two-Face's disgraced cops. So why is the Penguin the richest criminal in the city?_

He glances back at the monitor, watching the invasion force get gunned down by a deceptively innocent pair of dodo statues. The floor they are on is the only way to reach his office. He makes sure everyone knows this. The fact that the floor is heavily trapped, however, he keeps to himself.

_No_, Oswald Cobblepot thinks as he pours himself a glass of brandy in his luxurious office, _he certainly does not cut an imposing figure. He does not make blunt threats. He does not leave the streets awash with blood. Instead he dresses primly and speaks impeccably, even if his loquaciousness is often seen as a mark of weakness._

Another would-be assassin falls, decapitated by a metal eagle swinging down from the ceiling. The head rolls over to his comrades, who no doubt sully the atmosphere with profanity.

_What the newcomers cannot fathom is that the Penguin is guileful. Attempt an attack and you find yourself the target of half the underworld. You will be taken apart and he will not have dirtied a finger. His empire is multifaceted; bringing down one side does not affect the others. There is no visible weak point, no obvious power players within his organization. The police, the competitors and the Batman can nibble away at the nameless nobodies that toil on the streets. They are endless in supply. _

Much like these fellows, he reflects. They possess no skill whatsoever. It is almost as if they expected to barge in with guns blazing, cutting down an army of goons before filling a fat ganglord with bullets. Pitiful, the common criminal.

_For while Gotham may be the most dangerous city in the country, it is also the richest. Money flows like water through its streets, into the pockets of all who know where the stream runs. And the Penguin has situated himself in the center of it all. He has a hand in the drug trade, weapons smuggling, human trafficking, extortion, everything. He owns politicians, he has agents within the police force, he can hire half the underworld. _

He also owns each and every restaurant and shop on the block, so no report of suspicious noises in the night will ever make their way to the police. His esteemed guests will disappear without a trace and the Lounge will reopen next evening like any other.

_But money isn't the only reason he nests in Gotham. It is no mere ripe fruit to be plucked. It is a melting pot of violence, chaos and endless bloodshed between powerful forces from all over the globe. It spawns a curious creativity, unlike any other in the world. Strife births great minds and greater achievements. _

He looks back at the monitors. An employee is walking over to put the last of the gentlemen out of his misery, the click of her heels sounding in Oswald's mind even if no sound comes from the monitors. He looks away and takes another sip of his brandy.

_The world needs men like him. It is not the pacifists that usher in change. It is the ones who act without scruples. The ones who dare fulfill their ambitions without faltering. The Penguin is certainly among those chosen few. There is a reason his empire has withstood attacks by vigilantes, by honest cops, crazed environmentalists, ruthless sadists and an egotistical thrill-seeker. _

He puts the little interruption out of his mind and leans back in his armchair with a sigh. The holiday season is mere days away and he has yet to come up with a crime for New Year's Eve. He cannot very well leave this gloomy city alone on such a night. What would it be without his surreal, amazing adventures?

He lights a cigar and smiles as the smoke flits lazily about the office. _Yes, the world needs men like him._

_

* * *

_

AN: Some bits of my own personal canon, but should be mostly clear. I might make another chapter for this, if someone has a request. No promises on making a deadline, though.

Happy holidays, if you celebrate them. _  
_


	7. The Great Prison

The hall is wide and cold, grey and empty. From the small windows stems a soft white glow, the snowflakes flit lazily by outside. Inside the tables have been scattered this way and that, the chairs have been overturned, broken plates and cutlery are strewn across the wet floor.

Amongst the wreckage glides a short man with dirty blond hair, his arms stretched out into the thin air. His eyes are closed, his head jerks this way and that. The only music accompanying his erratic dance is the ticking of countless clocks that line the walls.

"Why…" he murmurs to the air as he keeps swirling across the room. He does not notice when he kicks the cutlery, nor when he steps into a pool of darkly colored liquid that colors his polished shoes.

"Why…" he murmurs to the air as he goes round again.

"Why…" he murmurs as he comes to a stop in the middle of the room. His eyes slowly open, his breathing turns erratic, his whole frame shakes. His voice attempts a scream, comes out as a choked sob.

"Why!"

He raises his arms again, slowly shakes his head back and forth. He clinches his eyes shut once more and keeps dancing. The clocks chime, each signalling a different hour. The short man's shoes shuffle along the cold floor.

He goes round and round to the ticking of the clocks. His eyes creep open and he sees shadows swimming around him, old friends beckoning him closer. He smiles as the memories flood his mind. Calm, verdant fields, colorful creatures and nonsensical conversations, a life filled with meaning and purpose. It feels too long since he has seen this life, embraced this world of wonders. He steps forward to join them.

His arms meet nothing but empty air. He freezes. His eyes go wide. His chin wobbles. The shadows are gone. His friends will not come.

He tumbles to the ground. He stares at the cold, hard floor, struggling to breathe. He runs two hands through his hair, clawing at the roots. He raises his eyes and sees the empty room before turning his gaze back to the floor. His mouth opens and he stammers, then mutters pitifully.

"I'm sorry."

He presses himself hard against the floor, but it denies him passage. The cold reality comes at him with all its cruelty. There are rules to this world. Here you do not swim in the stones, you do not walk on the wind, animals do not speak nor do raindrops whistle.

He jumps to his feet and races along the walls with probing hands, but there is no passage. There is no escape. He slumps against the wall and stares at the dead men on the floor. He doesn't know who they are. He half-remembers, but it is hard to discern reality from dream. He keeps his blurry eyes on them, unblinking.

"I'm sorry."

The clocks strike four and eight and one. He jerks to his feet, makes a half-hearted attempt at drying his eyes. He stares at the center of the room, his breathing erratic. With a jerk he starts walking, his footfalls echoing harshly. He strides over to a chair in the middle of the hall and grabs the lifeless husk sitting there by the shoulders and shakes her, his whole face contorting in anger.

"Why!"

Her unsupported head dangles this way and that. He stops, stares with blurring eyes. Clutches her to his chest, sobs wracking his body.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

He wipes his eyes with his sleeves, gently hoists her up off the chair. She feels heavy, but he manages to prop her against him. He closes his eyes and stumblingly starts his dance anew. Her head dangles backwards as he drags her this way and that, the sound of their shuffling movements filling the room. For a few, long moments they keep dancing.

A sound catches his ear and he peers out of one eye. He smiles with relief. The shadow of a bat falls upon the floor. He lets out a chuckle and a sob as he meets the conflicted stare of the Batman. The creature is saying something, but he cannot hear. He stares into Alice's cold, staring eyes with a sad smile. This world simply is not right.

Here he is merely one among thousands of faceless beings. Here the ground is cold and hard, his frame is slow and heavy. Here there are only countless tears and tragedies more still. Here there is no shelter. Here there is only pain.

He draws Alice closer and lets her head rest on his shoulder. He looks up again. The Batman holds out a hand. His voice is gentle. Jervis stares at the corpses on the ground and the blood spattered on the floor. He runs a hand over Alice's cold, cold cheek. Finally he meets the Batman's hard gaze.

Reality beckons. Does it entice?

* * *

AN: The season is fast approaching, so I felt the uncontrollable need to write something depressing. Sincerest apologies.

I'm reviving this thing, so taking prompts, although it must be about a villain I haven't done already.


	8. Masks

AN: For Spirit of Arkham.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to DC.

* * *

The light is dim, barely allows her to see the faint outline of her captor's back. Dark pinstripe trousers, suspenders over a dirty white shirt, and something indiscernible covering parts of his head. A fedora is lazily perched on the table, alongside various cruel instruments.

"The mask is a fascinating thing."

His low voice just barely carries over the incessant scraping and clanking as he fiddles with his tools. She shivers as he raises one to the light.

"It's a shame it doesn't get the respect it deserves."

He finally stops and turns around, leans back on the table. The face is mostly hidden, but she can make some of it out: Cold and black.

"You'd think this city would understand it by now. Maybe they're just too afraid to acknowledge it."

He moves from the table, walks over to her bound form. He bends over, his face only inches from hers. It's cold, hard and unmoving even as he speaks.

"Do you remember the day I finally became myself?"

He runs a finger along her own mask, chuckling.

"How exhilarating it was. Finally I lived, truly and fully."

He steps back to the table, picks up his hat and puts it on with a flourish.

"My words are as true now as they were then."

He raises his hands.

"The mask erodes your old self."

He taps the cheap light with one hand, making it shake. His face is illuminated and cast into shadow in turn.

"The mask liberates! Removes inhibitions! Removes weakness! It brings forth all the strength we are too afraid to harness!"

He reaches for the back of his head, slowly removes the hellish mask.

"Without it? What am I without it, Circe?"

He steps into the light to reveal a face most would call average.

"Without it I am normal. Forgettable. Insignificant."

She smiles behind her mask.

"I think you're still beautiful, Roman."

He steps forward, grabs her by the head. She tries to squirm away, but the ropes keep her in place. He chuckles and removes her mask, revealing her disfigured face. She clenches her eyes shut. Then feels a soft peck on her forehead. Her eyes slowly open. He's walking back to the table.

"We don't wear the masks to hide, Circe. We wear them to show our true faces. We wear them because the mask…"

He grabs another mask off the table, shows it to her.

"The mask is power."

He puts on the jolly santa mask.

"Ho, ho, ho."

She can't help laughing.

"Oh, Roman."

* * *

AN: I'm sorry, I have no idea. What are they doing? Do I want to know? But for some reason I wrote this. Simply had to. Maybe Circe was feeling down and Black Mask has a weird way of motivating people? Maybe?

I ditched the 'Mask is burned onto his face" bit. Not that that version isn't fun.


	9. That Time of Year

Frank Domenica was not enjoying the holidays. This was partially because he'd just been through a tough divorce that left him unable to see his kids. Mostly it was because he was tied up in a chair while a lunatic set up some sort of elaborate display on his living room table.

"Why are you doing this?"

The intruder stopped what he was doing and turned his head toward his victim. A small smile played upon his lips.

"It's that time of year again."

He turned back to his work. Frank stared at the man. He'd been dressed as Santa Claus when he knocked on the door, holding some sort of donation box for handicapped children. Frank could see the reasoning behind such a visit: A shapely estate atop a hill, what better target to guilt-trip into donating some money? So he opened the door and drew his wallet. The man had been a convincing Santa, right until he plunged a syringe into his unsuspecting host.

Frank retained consciousness, but lost all capabability of fighting back. The only thing he could do was watch and feebly flap his arms about in a show of defiance. After closing the door, dragging his victim into the living room and tying and handcuffing him, the nutter had shed his disguise. Underneath the outfit he was wearing nondescript clothing: Faded jeans and a dull, white shirt under a red sweater. The only thing that made the man stand out was his face. He looked fairly young, but still he was completely bald. No trace of facial hair. His eyebrows were trimmed; two fine lines resting above a pair of sunken, lazy yet intelligent eyes. He was incredibly pale, like he hadn't seen sunlight for weeks. He was, both in manner and appearance, a thoroughly unsettling man. He became even more so when Frank saw what he was putting on the table.

Doubtful as he was of the success of trying to reason with the man, Frank tried it, in a slurred, tired voice.

"Please. I've got kids."

The man turned around again, and raised both arms to the side. Again the tiny smile was on his face.

"And you're not thankful I'm leaving them alone?"

He turned back to the table, making a few tweaks to his weird display. With a small hum of satisfaction he moved on to his next task: Moving a chair into the corner and laying the santa outfit on it, taking a few moments to adjust the cap. He looked back and forth between Frank and the outfit, as if measuring the distance. With a satisfied nod he walked back to the table, facing Frank.

"Now, then."

"I can get money. Lots of money."

He squirmed in his seat, trying to find some slack in the ropes. His captor made that tiny smile again.

"That's nice, Frank. Now…"

He leaned back on the table.

"Have you ever thought of how you'd do it? If it ever came to that?"

Frank blinked, struggled to keep his head up.

"Do what?"

The creep lifted a hand, lazily gesturing at the table behind him.

"You know…Suicide."

Frank's breath caught in his throat. The guy was getting ready. He had to stall.

"What did I ever do to you?"

The man shook his head with a quiet little chuckle.

"Nothing, Frank, absolutely nothing. But I really need to press you for an answer here."

Frank tried to shake his head.

"No, no I never thought about it."

The weirdo pursed his lips.

"Hm. Well, it's never too late. I brought a few options. You just tell me when we hit something enticing."

He turned around and peered over the table, still talking as he pondered the first choice.

"I wanted to be thoughtful here, since we have all the time in the world. Don't want to be just like any other brute. So inconsiderate. How about this one?"

He raised a barber's knife to the light.

"Classic. A rather painful and long process, but memorable. Given the space you have, I think it could spread quite nicely. Should look very good when you're done, give the detectives plenty to look at."

He stared expectantly at the bound man for a few seconds, then returned it to the table. Next he raised a bottle of pills before the eyes of his captive audience.

"Less messy, more considerate to the detectives. Not very romantic however."

Again a few moments before returning it. He grabbed a gun from the table.

"Very manly. Violent, loud, sends a real message. Very good if you live in close proximity to annoying neighbors. Nothing says 'I hate you' like lifelong mental scarring."

He returned it to the table, then showed his victim a carefully crafted noose.

"Another classic. Quiet, relatively clean, can be quick or slow. Probably slow, considering our surroundings. But very romantic. Nothing quite as striking as a dangling, lifeless body. You never forget your first one."

He returned it to its place and turned back to Frank without picking up another tool.

"Sadly, I can't offer you a fall to your death. As nice as this house may be; and I'm being sincere here, very nice, but it doesn't quite have the required height."

He stood up and clasped his hands.

"Well. That's all I've got. It's decision time."

Frank swallowed, feeling sweat starting to pour down his face.

"Wait. Before I decide, I wanna know something."

The tiny smile returned and his eyes opened just a bit wider.

"Yes?"

He tried to move his feet around a bit, but the ropes made any movement unfeasible.

"You seem like an, uh, unusual sort of, ah, guy. So... just who are you? One of those costume types?"

The smile disappeared.

"You don't know who I am? But the news have…Well, suffice to say I've been quite busy these last few months. But I suppose I am overshadowed sometimes. Last Halloween especially. And I don't really wear a costume often."

Frank held his breath, hoping the guy was flustered enough to keep talking. Said guy looked back at him, tiny smile in place.

"I'm called the Calendar Man. Not quite as catchy as some, but I like it."

Frank cursed mentally.

"So what's your…your signature?"

The man went back to the table, stared at his instruments.

"I plan my crimes around specific days of the calendar. And keep them within the theme of their particular date. It's really quite rewarding work."

He spun around, eyes boring into Frank's.

"But it's time to choose."

Frank squirmed in his restraints.

"No, wait. Tell me of some of your biggest crimes. Think maybe I remember you from the news."

He shook his head.

"No. No more waiting. You choose or I choose."

Frank bit down on his lip.

"Just gimme a few more seconds. I need to think."

He gave a tired sigh.

"Knife it is."

He stepped towards Frank, knife in hand.

"No! No, I want the pills!"

Another sigh, but he returned the knife. And approached with the box of pills.

"Wait, no! Noose, the noose!"

He lazily put the pills back, grabbed the knife.

"No, man, please! I want the noose!"

The man strolled over to him, leant down as his victim struggled in the chair. Frank shook the creaking thing, almost managing to throw it onto its side, but a firm hand kept it in place. He felt the handcuffs being slid up and fingers slowly feeling along his wrist. Suddenly there was a short, searing pain, followed by a hot feeling flooding his skin.

"Ah, fuck!"

The man strolled back to the table, put the knife back down.

"You little piece of shit!"

He lazily walked into hallway, softly opened the door.

"Oh, God."

Frank grit his teeth and threw his head back.

"Somebody fucking help me!"

In the doorway stood the Calendar Man, waving goodbye with a tiny smile on his lips.

"Have a good one, Frank."

* * *

AN: Still taking prompts.


	10. Violencondimenkillation

A door is kicked down on the fifth try.

"Ladies and... hah… gentlemen, raise... whew… your hands. This is a robbery and I've got an itchy trigger finger. I am the uncanny Condiment King!"

A tall man in a blue unitard, pickle-like cowl, and flashingly white underwear stands grinning before a room of confused mobsters playing cards. The sunglasses on his face are unbearably cool.

"Is this a joke?"

The villain screams in anger.

"Aaaaah!"

The felon's trigger finger slips as he screams further in anger.

"Aaaaah!"

Various condiments are splurted over the inconsiderate mobster. Cries of outrage ring throughout the room.

"He's got a condiment gun!" Screams one particularly observant young lady.

The villain grits his teeth and tries to regain his breath.

"That's…that's right, fruitcake. Obey or face the wrath of the Sultan of Sauce!"

The mobsters share unsure looks. Finally one takes control of the situation.

"Alright, let's just shoot him."

They all hurry to their feet, grabbing various pistols, machine guns, shotguns, mini-guns, bazookas, catapults, darts and the like from within their jackets. The Condiment King's eyes go wide.

"Waste him!"

As the bullets take flight it feels almost as if time slows down. The look on Condiment King's face changes from fright to cold, cool, awesome fury.

"Raaaaaaargh!"

His fingers treat the triggers on his condiment guns roughly, but lovingly. The twin tanks on his back start their magic and soon the wall of bullets is met by an even more impressive wall of ketchup and mustard. A few, fierce moments later all guns go quiet. The Condiment King stares into the eyes of his foes as the bullets and sauce float in the air. Finally the ammunition tumbles to the floor, revealing a completely unharmed Condiment King and mobsters awash with ketchup and mustard. Thankfully, the criminal population of Gotham is not terribly bright.

"Aaah! I'm hit! I'm hit!" Cries one, clutching one of many red spots on his body.

"Oh, God, me too! I don't even wanna know what the yellow stuff is!"

"Hell, man, it's your organs leaking out! Aaaah!"

The Condiment King blows on his gun coolly. The remaining mobsters share a nervous look.

"Let's maybe beat him up with our fists, then."

"Yeah!"

The mooks try to rush him, but find it harder than it should be.

"Oh, no, I'm slipping!"

"Shit, man, I'm slipping even more!"

The whole party falls to the floor with groans and shouts. In the corner, a shaken woman hisses into a telephone.

"What's happening down here? What's happening is he's beating us with his ridiculousness, Rupie! Send someone down here now!"

Meanwhile the Condiment King takes all the valuables, one at a time, his smile growing larger by the second. He poses in the broken doorway as he prepares to leave.

"Ha-ha! I must take my leave of you!" He wipes a tear from his eye. "Parting is such sweet and sour sorrow."

He strides out triumphantly. Outside he finds himself face to face with Batman.

"You don't cut the mustard, Batman!"

He punches the Batman in the stomach. Batman keels over, helpless. The Condiment King stares victoriously into the sky before clicking a button on the twin tanks on his back. They spew out sauce at an incredible rate, and the villain takes off into the clouds, howling with self-congratulatory laughter. Batman slowly rolls onto his back to stare into the night sky. He doesn't quite understand what just happened, but he knows one thing: He just met his new nemesis.

* * *

AN: As with other silly villains, I think Condiment King could really become very interesting if we made him into a monster, like Killer Moth's transformation into Charaxes. Just imagine it: Killer Condimentaxes. Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you: The future.

Still taking prompts.


	11. Tropical Christmas

AN: The site doesn't seem to like my brackets, so I can't mark things properly, but the English is supposed to be translated from Spanish.

* * *

The office is humid and stuffy, a small lamp casting light on a giant man in an impeccable suit. The grand mahogany desk he sits at seems miniscule when confronted with his heavy form. The armchair he sits in creaks with every movement. He grabs a paper from the mountain of reports cluttering up his desk and runs his eyes over it, a ghost of a smile appearing on his face.

His work is interrupted by a timid knock on the door.

"Pase," he answers without looking up from his papers.

Quick and quiet steps sound lightly on the thick carpet, and Bane looks up at his underling.

"¡Feliz Navidad, jefe!"

Bird stares eagerly at his boss, a hint of humor in his eyes. He knows very well that he is valuable, and does his utmost to use every privilege it grants him.

"¿Estás bromeando?"

Bird whips out a bottle of whiskey from behind his back, a grin on his face.

"No, boss. Just thought a little gift was in order. Perhaps even a toast. To your success."

Bane gives his imputent assistant a cold glare.

"You know I do not drink." He leans back in his chair. "But just this once I will share a drink with you. Call it adherence to ritual."

Bird smiles as he pours the drinks.

"Exactly, boss. This victory is surely worthy of a celebration. You now rule the underworld of our fair island and, by extent, the whole government. To the true ruler of Santa Prisca!"

They down their glasses. Bane clasps his hands.

"Yes, I have fulfilled my dream for this place."

He stands from his desk and walks over to the window, staring out over his camp.

"I have risen from their dirtiest hellhole to the top of their dirty world. This country has taught me much. Of war, of strength, of the corrupt scum that cover this planet. The power is there for the taking. With enough ambition, it is simply a matter of plucking it from their fat, lazy fingers."

Bird pours himself another glass.

"To our dirty, ugly, little country!"

Bane's eyes stare blankly out at the ocean that laps against his beach.

"This world is weak. Stagnant. The powerful are content. Safe."

He crosses his arms across his chest.

"But with a few chosen words, I will make the ground beneath their feet crumble. I will make the people they trample upon rise against them. They are unworthy of the power they hold. Power is not a birthright. It is to be taken."

Bird pours himself another.

"You have already decided on the next target?"

Bane doesn't turn around, merely waves in the direction of his desk. He can hear Bird going through the papers.

"Gotham? Going straight for the most dangerous city on the planet? Very impressive."

He turns around slowly, towering over his underling.

"Surely you did not think I would be satisfied with being king of this tiny island? No, I want more than that."

Bird grins up at him.

"Of course. So how will be proceed? Shall I send agents to secure a foothold?"

Bane stares emotionlessly down at the arrogant man.

"No. We will go ourselves, immediately. I am not looking to cut myself a slice of the city's underworld. Not yet."

His henchman stares up in confusion.

"What? But who will sit on the throne here? What is in Gotham that requires us to go personally?"

Bane calmly grabs him by the throat and hoists him into the air.

"You did well in our operations here, Bird. In this little playground you are very capable. But you have not proven yourself to me yet. You are valuable, but not indispensable. I am not your friend. I do not want to hear your doubts. I want you to listen. I want you to obey. Do you understand me?"

Bird gives a tiny nod, a nervous smile on his lips.

"Your word is law. "

Bane slowly puts him back down.

"Good. We will not claim ground in Gotham yet. At first we will only research. There is a man whom the city fears. He has fought the organizations, he has fought infamous assassins, he has fought dozens of strange and dangerous foes who have risen up just to challenge him. And so far, he has never lost. A worthy champion. A man widely regarded as the most dangerous alive."

The huge man grabs a newspaper and shows the front page to his underling with a cold smile.

"When I beat this man, and show his battered body to his people, the city will crumble before me. I will be their new bogeyman. Their new master. I am now the king of a worthless island. But soon, Bird, I will be the king of hell."

He pours another glass and hands it to Bird, who is still rubbing his neck.

"Go on, Bird. Drink. To Bane."


End file.
